Ophelia [a.m]

𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊 𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘

  The morning was cold - the trees under my skin had frozen over blue.

  I wanted to curl up and melt into the silks but you kissed me and I unfurled.

  Good morning, I whispered. Will you let me say good morning to you at school now?

Will you say it back?

You smiled - strained.

Say it now, please.

You don't and get up, the sheets turning to ice and I shiver.

I always thought you were cold - apparently you were my only warmth.

The bathroom door opens as you walk in, I eye the bath.

I want to drown in it.

Will you hold me under?

  No, that'd be cruel of me.

  Besides, it's too small - what happened to me?

  It's like getting to know you only fed into my sadness.

  I wanted this, though.

  I knew it would hurt and I kept walking - talking - kissing - you.

  It was all you.

  Everything I am is you and I want you, my darling, to undo me.

  Rewrite my existence or erase it, either one works.

  As the wind whispers a lullaby through the window I know it'll be the latter.

  I get up.

  I'm so lonely.

  King Cross Station glints shove us like a rusted scythe - I want to duck my head lower but I know it would behead me either way.

  You're still by my side and I'm grateful but I know as soon as me run through the brick wall we'll fall back into our dance where we're more depressed and slow and it isn't as sensual.

  I felt like crying.

  Your hand was on my cheek, thumb swiping and it felt like gravel and with the way you were looking at me -

  Fuck.

  I'm sorry.

  Your brow furrows and you're close and a cigarette is hanging from your mouth and the nicotine seeps into my pores.

  What for?

  Everything. Nothing. I don't know - run away with me.

  He was a Malfoy, if he ran, the world would be watching.

  You sigh through your nose and it comes out as smoke and the dragon in you is showing.

  You know things will be different. They had to be. Didn't they?

  Why?

  Why did they have to?

  Who's to say? Who dictates what can be right and wrong? God? Surely not. His commandments were lost in translation and evil became holy and good became sin.

  But I knew why.

  And I hated him.

  Tom Riddle.

  I wanted to kill him.

  I've never wished death on anyone but myself but I wanted to rip his spine from his back and inflict crucio on every single one of his nerves separately.

  What happened to me?

  Cruel thoughts lead to cruel deeds.

  I want to be with you, I say calmly despite the hurricane going off inside of me.

  You hold me close and despite your careful touch I'm cracking.

  And I all the same, your fingers grasp my chin and my throat bends back and your mouth is hot - but - you pause.

  Say it.

  Just say it.

  Cut me open now so I bleed dry before I reach the train.

  You look at me and the moon is in your eyes but the craters are frowning and I step away from you.

  I know I said I wanted you to end me but... perhaps not.

  I'd rather break myself.

  I'll see you at the feast.

  And I fell backward through the brick and for a moment I thought you were crying.